His Constrained Heart
by MadameMorganLeFay
Summary: Merlin had faced all manner of pains in the world, but none were so devastating as being denied the one he loved.


**HIS CONSTRAINED HEART**

''His Constrained Heart''  
Slash (Canon AU)  
Merlin/Arthur (one-sided), Arthur/Gwen  
Rating/Warnings: T  
Summary: Merlin had faced all manner of pains in the world, but none were so devastating as being denied the one he loved.

Author's Notes: Alright, so this is my first time of posting on this site, and I am sorry for the HTML tages- I copies this over from HoC and I forgot to take them out...

Notes: For all slash (and Arwen) fans. I waited until I had the majority of this written out in my head before beginning it, so I am much more satisfied with the end product than I was, because I have taken more care with it.

The sheer power of Merlin's resolve was simultaenously one of his greatest strengths and one of his greatest weaknesses.

Once he was determined that he should take a certain course, then he would immediately pour all of his energy into forcing himself to make good his promises. Such was his burden, and perhaps one might say that he had finally reached something that resembled an understanding with it- albeit an uneasy one. Those who knew Merlin would immediately remark upon his overweening single-mindedness, but nobody needed to know that his will often wavered dramatically, deviating from his chosen course to accomodate his turbulent heart and its impulsive desires, for that quick fix of satisfaction that washed over him in the aftermath. Later, he would pay heavily for his aberrations. Having learnt his lesson, he would once again be sure to stick to what was expected of him, deriving comfort anew from the fact that its results would ensure his own comfort, at least for his long-term well-being and peace of mind; his heart was another matter.

His heart did _not_ matter.

The case in point concerned King Arthur Pendragon. Just one mention of the name, and Merlin could feel the painful squeeze of his stomach, the sharp, harried intake of breath, the softening of that bewitchingly prescient expression in his eyes... and the progressive moistening of his lips. His hands would choose this moment to grow clammy, and his manner of speech, already decorated with impertinency and all-round awkwardness, would become even more addle-headed and indecipherable, at least to his King, who mocked him about it no end, entirely oblivious to the effect that he had on his manservant.

But that was not important; _any_ time that he had Arthur's attention be it uncomplimentary, or rarer still, complimentary, was time that Merlin's abused heart clutched at frantically, treasuring it like a jewel, replaying it over and over in his mind, storing it inside him to be relived during a more private moment.

Arthur only had to _say_ something to him, and his mind would squirm in unbridled pleasure at the timbre of his voice, the elegant movements of his plush rosebud lips, the exquisite expression in those perfect cerulean eyes... Better still, Arthur might touch him- admittedly, that might be what he fraudulently claimed was a friendly shoulder punch, or an outright clout for his peceived rudeness, but sometimes, he got a gentle brush on the arm that made it tingle in delight for moments afterwards, and every time that he recalled it in his tortured, unfulfilled dreams.

Sometimes, Arthur would drape an arm around his shoulders, and although he absolutely _adored_ the feel of the King's meticulously honed arm over his inadequately endowed body, and he craved more, always more of that musky exotic scent that Arthur wore, and the fresh smell of his linen shirts (which he, Merlin, slaved at for hours to clean), such friendliness was a dangerous challenge to his chastity. For whilst he was momentarily held in that half-hearted embrace, it as all he could do to restrain himself from sinking his longing head onto those broad shoulders that looked sure to be inviting and strong. He had to force himself not to allow a desperately inquisitive hand to rest itself on the firm abdomen of his King, he had to make sure that he did not, most importantly, lean even closer in the hope of something more.

Because there would be nothing more.

Only for Guinevere were the real delights of Arthur's attentions reserved. She could tilt her beautiful head up to his, lips ready, longing for a kiss, she could wrap her understandably willing arms around the perfect contours of his body, she could rest her head against that solid chest, and run her hands over it. She could stroke his golden locks, his prominent cheekbones, his sinfully full lips, and anywhere else her hands dared wonder. Merlin could either watch, wildly envious, deeply pained; he could only speculate about what it might be like to even be granted one innocent touch from Arthur, never mind the gratituous caresses that Gwen lavished upon him.

Even more torturous was having to watch Arthur's obvious delight in her company, the all-too evident love that he held for the serving girl. One mention of her name, and his eyes would sparkle, he would lose all interest in everything else, and a slight smile would dance upon his god-like features. In his view, she was undisputedly the most important person in his world- Merlin knew that, he could see that his King lived to see Guinevere smile. And what a lovely smile she must have, for it roused the same reaction from a King who prided himself on his emotional restraint, it elicited the kind of loving expression that Merlin saved only for him. So when she would give him plenty of physical attention, he would wholeheartedly respond with touches, kisses and caresses that rivalled her own passion.

Now, what must that be like, to have Arthur love him in that way? To be the first person that he woke up to? To be the last person that he spoke to at night? To be the one who he would sacrifice anything and everything for? To be the only one who could really bring out his softer, warm-hearted and selfless side? To be the last safe place for him in a Kingdom that had yet to grow? To be the ultimate prize when he climbed into bed with him at the end of a long and taxing day? Merlin could only dream. Delicious as his fantasies were, such pleasures would [i]never[/i] be his right. Never.

Emptiness would punch him in the gut, and he would have to swallow down the bitter pill of restraint, unrequited love.

What would Guinevere think, if only she were to know that the same kind of affection that she held for the King was equalled by someone else... by another man? How would she react? What could she say? What would she do? He often did wonder and fear that he might grow lax in carefully concealing his deepest wants; could he ever try hard enough to remain upbeat with her- his _rival_ or would he be forever haunted with guilt at her unsuspecting kindness towards him? And suppose one day, that she suspected; could they continue as friends, if such a revelation were to be made; that Merlin loved Arthur- like _that_?

It _was_ love; he could not remember when it had started to become so, when he had noticed for sure that the warm tinglings and light-headedness he experienced around his master were testament to his feelings for him, as opposed to fear of being punished by him; indeed, the latter alternative had been used as an excuse to lie to himself about his growing attachment to the King... to another man. Who could blame him? He did not particularly wish to be beheaded for entertaining such an inclination, and of course, Arthur would be beyond disgusted, he would be humiliated- they _both _would be, and...

But that did not lessen the truth that lay within his heart. It could not, for the power of his desires were stronger than any earthly law; no threat of death could ever hope to conquer the deep passions he had allowed to blossom and multiply inside of him. He _loved_ Arthur- with _all _of his heart, soul and mind. There was no way around it; no excuses, no grey areas. What was true... remained so, and would do even into the abyss that signalled the end of Arthur's days. Denying it would only inflict more searing pain than that which was borne of the tragic futility of his love for the King.

Futile, impossible was his love. Useless, unwanted, reviled.

There were times when he hated himself; railed against his inner mind for choosing to take this path which could lead nowhere, which could bear no fruit. He would curse, debate, curse again until his weary soul grew wearier still. Just like his love, nothing would come out of self-hatred. He would give up, relinquish his anger, and surrender his body again to the fires that his King lit up inside of him. He would be lost once more.

After that, he had to bring himself back into the stark view of reality. Perhaps he might have daydreamed, woken up late, or forgotten to attend to Arthur, and with a sense of panic, would hurry to complete his daily duties, the shell of his outer appearance walking about the Castle, with generic, automatic smiles for all who passed him, deceiving them into asserting that all that could possibly be right in Merlin's world was so. Only if one were to study him carefully, they might notice the way his manufactured bright expression melded into one which radiated such an intense love and near-despair every time that he saw Arthur Pendragon, how his eyes were fixed on the latter from the moment he saw him, how he seemed unable to notice anything else, or anybody else when in the presence of his King.

To Arthur, Merlin's smiles were nothing but a mark of his servant's forwardness and predilection to mock him.

He had no idea; he could never know.

Merlin had faced all manner of pains in the world, but none were so devastating as being denied the one he loved.


End file.
